Heartbreak Hotel
by Pickyourownadventurecontest
Summary: "You're going to be good tonight? You are always so, so good to me, baby." What happens when a starlet stumbles into the lives of two Award winning actors and lovers? A story involving a party, a blanket, a bathroom, hope and Hollywood royalty. AH


**Pick Your Own Adventure Contest**

**Submission Heading:** Pick Your Own Adventure O/S Contest

**Title:** Heartbreak Hotel

**Rating & Any Needed Warnings:** M

**Word Count: **11,879

**Pairing: **Bella

**Words Selected: **party, bathroom, hope, blanket, royalty

**Summary:** "You're going to be good tonight? You are always so, _so_ good to me, baby." What happens when a starlet stumbles into the lives of two Award winning actors and lovers? A story involving a party, a blanket, a bathroom, hope and Hollywood royalty. AH

**Disclaimer: **All copyrights, trademarked items or recognizable characters, plots, etc mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement intended.

In other words, I do not own Twilight or Edward Cullen. SM does, unfortunately.

**Public voting will be from March 1st - March 8****th**

**Winner will be announced March 12th.**

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**oOOo**

**Heartbreak Hotel**

**oOOo**

Part 1

Everyone is here tonight.

Let's be clear. Everyone who matters are here at the launch party tonight.

In a dog eat dog town like this, these are the ones, the glitterati, who matter.

It's who you know that's important in this town and these are the people who matter.

These are the people who are part of the machine.

They are the ones who peddle a dream – they're pimps after all – the oldest ones in this town.

These are the people who you aim to please because they are the ones who get you up there among the stars.

Their so-called friendship entails codes of silence and threat.

In return, if you play the game correctly, you'll get to see your name lit against the night sky for all to see.

Who wouldn't want their name lit up, brighter than a million stars?

**~o~**

I see Caius, the director of the latest talk of the town movie.

There are already whispers that his movie will bring in five Oscars and maybe two Baftas.

Only two, you wonder. But then the Baftas are British, what do they know?

He's in the corner surrounded by his studio bosses and the moguls, the funders of his pet project.

He's married, forty-eight years old, lecherous and pot-bellied and he's been cheating on his wife since their honeymoon.

I spy another producer, Aro, surrounded by his sycophants.

He's well-known for his multi-million dollar crash-bang blockbusters.

There he stands, in his Armani suit, slick back dyed hair, surrounded by his cronies but he's intent on looking down the dress of the latest starlet – she's the latest flavour on the scene.

She'll probably star in his next production – he always gets his way.

This crash-bang blockbuster producer loves his blow jobs.

He gets blow jobs exclusively. He likes to get blown as he watches the rushes from his latest movie project.

He says to me as he's getting blown that it's good for his prostate. What a crock of shit.

I spy yet more dipsomaniac actors, nympho actresses, crack-head socialites, the so-called scandal rags 'writers' and entertainment 'reporters', stoned musicians, promiscuous studio bosses, avaricious publicists and wall-to-wall ambitious horny starlets.

It doesn't take a genius to know that they all crave the same thing – to be part of this dystopian nightmare.

They all want in on the glitterati of the celebrity matrix. These are, after all, the demigods of the entertainment industry of the Western world.

**~o~**

I continue to scan the room looking for her.

I am anxious – I need to see her tonight.

I finally spy her standing near the balcony doors, surrounded by A-List stars.

Well, well, how she has come on.

I catch her eye when she looks around.

Her eyes widen. In panic? I don't know. But I certainly hope so.

I watch her hand tighten on _his_ bicep, my eyes zeroing in on the diamond glittery bright on _that_ finger.

He looks really good tonight in that bespoke tux, I'll give him that.

Her arm candy, only her arm candy, I reassure myself.

Yet, my heart squeezes painfully when I see her with him.

Fuck, I didn't think it would hurt so badly still.

She is the picture of innocence, looking oh so demure in that Chanel number, not a hair out of place, discreet make-up, and light blush on her cheeks.

But I know better.

There she stands looking so damn demure.

But she's trouble, that one.

She couldn't get anywhere, wouldn't be _anywhere_ without her publicist, personal stylist, her manager and him, _him_, of course.

She wouldn't be the It Girl if it hadn't been for _him_.

In this town, it's who you know that gets you anywhere.

She's now the talk of the town, thanks to _him_, her arm candy.

She thinks she's got it made – name on the billboards, interviews with film critics, photo spreads in Vogue, Harper's Bazaar, and an Oscar nomination in the bag.

But I know better – I've got the dirt on her.

The photos of threesomes. Of her snorting, shooting, tooting. Of her spread-eagle.

And I'm going to bring her down, down.

Revenge is a dish best served cold.

But hope burns ever oh so brightly.

Hope springs infernal.

**~o~**

She is lovely, I guess.

Not a pageant or home coming queen type beauty.

Fuck no, definitely not that.

She isn't tall.

Quite short, in fact.

She isn't leggy. Doesn't have those legs which go on for miles and miles.

What is she? 5'3"? Yeah, 5'3" at most...

Her hair's long. Even with extensions, it's nothing to write home about.

It's brown, just plain brown.

Her eyes too. Yeah, just brown.

Plain old brown.

Brown like burnt toast, brown like Mississippi mud, brown like the nothing-shit-kicking-podunk-dirt-town she's from.

The stylist does the best she can and she gets paid very handsomely for her troubles.

She's pale though – all peaches and cream.

That makes her lovely, I guess. I could give her that.

Yeah, I'll give her that.

I didn't doubt her good girl status initially.

She had that act down pat.

She looked like an innocent, but I had wondered about that.

Yeah, I had seriously doubted that.

She's just a good actor when it comes to her good demure girl act.

Any other day, I would have harboured tender thoughts.

Not now. Not after all that.

**~o~**

I am tall.

I've got a good body.

In fact, I've got a great body.

I've certainly got great hair.

I know I'm a looker – all my girlfriends say so.

I'm a stylist's wet-dream, so I've been told.

I've got my own pads.

Four, in fact.

One in LA, another in the Hollywood Hills, an apartment in NY and a loft in London.

I have good pedigree. I come from a very good family.

Unlike her, I went to a good school. She didn't even finish High School.

I'm old money, as they say. Unlike her.

She's an _arriviste_.

Practically had to claw her way up the ladder via the casting couch, of that I was very sure.

Yeah, I'm loaded. And I know I'm gorgeous.

The girls all say I'm lucky with my God-given looks, unlike her.

That plain, brown-haired short girl.

They say I'm an arrogant fuck.

But everyone knows I'm also a hot fuck.

Yeah, I'm definitely fuck hot too.

Well, yes, of course I am.

Why ever the fuck not?

I'm royalty, the toast of this town.

**~o~**

Part Two

We meet in my fuck pad high up in the Hollywood Hills.

It's been a long week of evening and night shoots.

It's quiet here. Perfect for what I've got planned for this weekend.

If I get my way, we'll spend the next two days buried in each other.

"Listen. We have to talk." I frown upon hearing those words.

"Ohhhh...can't we talk later?" I put on my sultry voice, the one that always works. We've been on the set all day. The last thing I wanted was to talk. I just want to fuck.

"No, it's important."

"Spit it out then." I sigh. I'm impatient though and start stripping and tearing at our clothes.

"Wait. Will you just fucking wait! Look…I...we...need to stop." My hands are batted away.

I'm bewildered. "Stop? But we haven't even got started!"

"No, I mean...I'm just...Look, what I want –"

I am annoyed. I'm so impatient to start our night's plans that I lash out, "Look, will you just spit it out!"

Irritation colours my lover's come-back. "Right. Spitting it out. I don't want you. I–"

I frown and stop what I'm doing and look, _really look_, at my lover's eyes again. Those eyes never lie.

They twinkle when the mood is mischievous.

They harden when they're angry.

They become half-lidded when clouded with lust.

I know this is serious because all I see are dead, cold eyes.

I stop in my tracks, appalled. But let's be honest, I'm also partially amused. "You don't want _me_? _What_? What do you mean _you don't want me_?" This is absolutely laughable. Everyone wants me.

"Yes, that's exactly what I mean. I don't want you."

I'm finding it difficult to absorb the words. I let my fingers do the talking as I trail them down that fine, luscious body. "Awww..._baby_. You can't mean that."

"Yes. Yes. I do." My hands are pushed away. _Again._

I'm stifling my laughter now. "Oh, you're being funny, aren't you? I get it."

"This isn't a joke. I'm not joking!"

"Why must you play so hard, baby? Baby, what's wrong with you?" I attempt my best smouldering voice, the one that drives the fans wild, as I press my lips to that sweet curve in the neck I know so well and run my hand through those gorgeous soft locks.

"Nothing's wrong with me. _You _are what's wrong. You're wrong for me. Will you please back the fuck off?" My shoulders are grabbed and I'm held at arm's length.

The evening I had planned has taken an odd turn, one that I can't comprehend. "Oh, baby. Are we role-playing from our scripts? I don't remember those lines in the script." We must be rehearsing from a script, I thought.

I shake my head, amused, and reach out to continue undoing buttons and zips. I know what I wanted out of this evening. I had it all planned. All this so-called talking was doing my head in.

"No! Will you just listen! We're not. Just stop...I just want..."

"Oh, baby, you're getting upset. Come here, let me make it better. I always do, don't I?" I always make it better. This is how we work. We fight, we kiss, we make-up, we fuck.

"I'm not upset! I'm just...look, listen to me, just listen because –"

I interject. "Don't upset yourself, baby. This is just a game, isn't it? You give me what I want. I give you what you want. Simple. No one gets hurt. Now, let's get these jeans off you..."

"Will you just fucking stop! Get your hands off me. You're not listening! It's not that simple anymore."

Those words baffle me, stop me in my tracks and leave me at a loss for words. "What? What do you mean?"

"Look. I'm in love with someone."

"What? _Love_?" I couldn't help but sneer. "You must be crazy. You're not the type to fall in love. You told me that years ago."

"Stranger things have happened. And yes...yes, I'm in love. I've fallen in love. I never thought it would happen. To me, of all people."

"Oh, God. Do you realize how fucking ridiculous you sound? I'm sure you're not in love. It's not like you, after all! Now, where were we?" Oh god, this is absolutely priceless. I shake my head, laughing, and reach forward to continue the task of undressing my lover.

"Will you just stop!" My hands are pushed away. _Again_. This is unbelievable. Not only am I confused but I'm furious too. I always get what I want. And I want our evening to start.

"What? Oh, I see how this works." I continue to sneer. "Just because you think you're _in love_, you think we should stop fooling around, don't you?"

My words come out harsh as I scoff. But this is getting ridiculous. I feel as if I've stepped into an alternate reality where people like us are capable of falling in love. This is patently absurd. Love isn't possible in this town, rife as it is with hucksters, vultures, pimps, greed, naked raw ambition, and paranoia.

"Yes, it means precisely that. Now, get off me. Now!"

"You can't mean that! I can feel you, you know. I know you want me. And you want me now. I know how much you want to fuck me. Hard." I grab those hips, tug them forward, sharply. I couldn't help but smirk. We both can feel the evident erection in those tight jeans.

"Get off me now...or I'll...so, help me, God." I end up getting shoved. _I am pushed away again._ And end up stumbling, tangled in my clothes. That has never happened to me. No one pushes me away. I am royalty. _Everybody_ wants me.

"Oh come on...why are you playing so hard to get? No one else needs to know, you know. It'll be our little secret...our little sexy secret." I grit my teeth because I realize I'm losing my fucking dignity now as I plead.

I grab at that sexy body again because I know, _I just know_, that I have to get extra persuasive with my hands and lips. That has always worked.

"That's enough! Get off me! And stay the fuck away from me. I. Don't. Want. You. Now, get the fuck off me!" These words are punctuated with me getting pushed away again. Only, this time I lose my balance as I stumble backwards and almost fall over the back of the sofa.

_What the fuck? _I catch and right myself, standing hands on hips, glaring. "What? What the fuck was that? What the hell has gotten into you? You're just being –"

"I'm really not joking! You just...Just...just stay away from me, you poisonous fuck!"

I'm livid and insulted. Those words stung.

I've never heard such hurtful words. I rush forward and attempt to slap the insult off that angry, beautiful face, "How dare you! How dare you speak to me like that? What the hell is wrong with you? You're not in love! You only think you're in love."

But I end up being gripped tight in arms that are a vice round me. I hear those smug words whispered in my ear. "I feel sad for you, you know. You don't know what love is. You'll never love, not with that blackened heart of yours."

My heartbeat hammered. I attempt to wriggle away, unsuccessfully. I hissed. "Fuck you._ Fuck. You._ People like us don't love. You think you can toss me, _toss us _aside? After _everything_? You're deluded if you –"

"You're really not fucking listening, are you? I'm telling you this is over! _We are over!_"

I shook my head. A cold slither of dread is creeping down my spine. I'm getting increasingly anxious, and attempt reasoning. I snake my hands up to cup that beautiful face and reach to kiss those fulsome lips that I've come to know so well. "Mmm, you're just going through a phase. I get it. If you need time, I'll just –"

"No, _you_ don't get it. We are over. You're just...you don't get ...Just...Fuck!" With these words, I'm shoved away again. And again, I stumble and catch myself before I fall over.

"_You want to leave. You need to leave,_" I taunt, "so, just...just goddamn leave! Now!" I'm furious, absolutely fucking livid at being so vilely insulted. I'm also agitated as I have never been so physically manhandled. I want some time alone to lick my wounds before we make up again.

But my nerves have been strung so tight by this fight that I snap. I wanted to return like for like. I launch myself at my long-time lover, slapping, kicking and pulling. I rage. "You're going to regret this, you know! You don't get to treat me like this and get away! Without me, you're nothing. Nothing! I will tear you down!"

But my blows are deflected and I end up getting pushed backwards, the wind knocked out of me as my back hits the wall hard. I wince in pain and have to squeeze my eyes shut against the sudden stinging in my eyes as I hear those spiteful, wounding words. "You're deluded. I don't know what I ever saw in you. I don't –"

"That's it, isn't it? You just want to end this? Throw us away, after everything! Okay, this is it then. But you're going to regret this!" How did I fucking get here? I feel myself sliding down the wall as I feel a tightening in my chest. My face is wet. Shit. I never cry. Never.

"Just stay the fuck away from me from now on. I don't know what the hell I saw in you in the first place!"

I muster up righteous indignation from my humiliation. "You're going to regret this! I'll make sure of it." I know this isn't the end because I'll make goddamn sure that it isn't.

"Just get over your fascination with me. It's fucking over."

I don't want it to end like this but I need time to gather my scattered thoughts. _Fuck_. This wasn't the night I'd planned. I scream, "Fuck off then! Just fuck off! Before I throw you out!"

"Fine. This is goodbye."

In desperation, I rush over to block the door and place my hand on the door knob, hoping to buy some more time. "Please, just please, you're not in love. You don't even know what love is. The quicker you realize that, the sooner we can – " I plead through the wetness in my eyes and the hurt blossoming in my heart.

But I end up getting shoved aside from the door, and as the door is wrenched open, I hear those dreadful words tossed at me, "It's over. Just get that into your fucking head. You were always just a distraction."

"No one speaks to me like that. No one! I will sure make you regret this day." And I mean it. Someone will pay, of that I am sure. Shit. I'm really crying now. Fuck.

"Just stay away from me. Just forget we ever were. Leave me alone from now on. Don't contact me. And if you see me, don't you even dare speak to me."

With those last words ringing in my ears, the door slams shut.

I'm left wondering what the fuck just happened.

I sit by the door, numb and unmoving, for god knows how long, because in truth, I do not know.

I am uneasy, unsure and uncertain.

It seems that I don't know anything anymore.

I finally stagger over to the sofa, shell-shocked, from hearing such cruel, vindictive, spiteful words.

I have never heard such scornful words spew from those lips I love to kiss.

They cut me to the absolute core.

This is the worse fight we've had, of that I'm certain.

All I can register is that I've been dumped.

Me, of all people.

This wasn't what I had planned.

It was meant to be a fun filled weekend with wine, fine food and debauchery.

Instead, this has become a weekend from hell.

I end up drowning my misery in booze, hiding my humiliation and hurt behind closed blinds.

I don't remember much of those forty-eight hours. It passes in one long whiskey soaked numbness.

I do remember ignoring the phone which rang incessantly.

It must have been my manager because both he and my driver are on my doorstep pounding on my door early Monday morning, ready to drag me off to the set for the scheduled shoot.

**~o~**

That night was the last time we spoke to each other.

After that night, I become a non-entity.

It was as if I didn't exist anymore. As if we never were.

We didn't even get to have a last marathon fuck session. Not even for memory's sake.

Our paths continue to cross, of course.

It's hard to avoid each other in this town.

I see them together. On sets, in production meetings, in restaurants, at pre-launch parties, assorted Award ceremonies.

I see them together and I realize that I've been replaced.

I see them together and I realize that it should have been me.

It was me.

It used to be me.

It's then that I realise how much I missed our times together.

I want us back.

I want all those moments returned to me – our private candle-lit dinners, our weekends away, our shared laughter as we watched the old comedy classics in his beachfront house, our holding hands as we sit on the beach watching the sunset.

All these moments now frozen, lost, seemingly forever.

**~o~**

But I attempt to remain positive.

I'm convinced it's just a matter of time before we're back together again.

We'll laugh about it, have a quiet candle-lit before a weekend-long make-up fuck in one of my pads.

And it'll be as if we were never apart.

But sometimes I catch the way those eyes look at me, cold and aloof.

They regard me now as if I'm now a stranger.

That cuts me, slices me raw.

I begin to feel uncertain.

I attempt to keep up a brave front.

I continue to convince myself as the weeks pass into months.

We've always fought.

But we always ended up back together.

The make-up sex sessions were always fucking fantastic.

But this time, something's different.

I begin to feel uncertain.

The month passes into yet more months.

Summer is over and the holiday season approaches.

Our hectic schedule on the movie sets is almost over.

Yet, they're still together.

And I continue to remain on the sidelines, as if we never were, as if all those intimate moments we shared could be so easily cast aside.

I've never felt so furious. Or so humiliated.

No one scorns me.

No one ditches me.

I'm always the one to do the leaving.

I fuck hard. Take what I want.

And I'm always the one who leaves.

Not the one who's left behind.

I'm royalty after all, the toast of this godforsaken town.

**~o~**

Part Three

I replay the conversation from that night.

"_I don't want you_."

"_Now, fuck off._"

"_You were always just a distraction._"

They replay on an endless Technicolor loop.

I have convinced myself that it's a huge fucking mis-understanding.

We are meant to be together.

We are both highly depraved sexual creatures, too beautiful to be tied down.

We are young, beautiful and talented, part of the celebrity matrix.

We are royalty in this dog eat dog town.

We have fucked on and off for nearly nine years now.

We were always meant to be.

_We made sense_.

We were meant to set this town alight.

But somehow, in the equation, I don't know how, I got left behind.

I was the one who got ditched. The photo spreads said so. The pitying glances told me so.

Someone has to pay.

No one speaks to me like this. Ever. And gets away with it.

Someone has to pay. She'll do.

I'll make sure she gets what she deserves.

Humiliation is replaced by overwhelming fury.

Nobody does this to me without paying the price.

Vengeance _will_ be mine.

They _will_ live to regret the day.

Hope springs infernal.

I smirk to myself. If there's one thing I'm sure of – love is a relative concept.

It's the one weakness that doesn't get indulged in this town.

I'm certain this is only a phase.

It is only a matter of time before we're together again.

Hatred is a luxury I won't indulge in.

Hope springs infernal.

I'm a goddamn fine actor.

I _am_ on the A-List.

I'm royalty, after all.

And I've got a role of a life-time to play.

I start moving the chess pieces by making a number of phone calls.

**~o~**

Part Four

He's been with her now for eleven months.

I had no idea they had it in them.

I didn't think it was possible, not in this town.

They spend all their available time together.

I know. I've seen the pictures.

**~o~**

The first time I met her, I underestimated her.

That was my first mistake.

I shouldn't have taken my eyes off her.

I should have realized she would be the wrecking ball to my life as I know it.

We were at this pre-production pool side party. It was fifteen and a half months ago.

That's the first time I see her. I remember that day. It's etched on my memory.

She stands there in her tiny blue bikini, with her siren red painted lips, twirling her brown hair, acting demure, drinking her cocktail.

We're introduced to each other by Caius, the director of the new movie.

She's the supporting actress, my co-star.

I tell her that I'm looking forward to working with her.

She looks at me with wide saucer eyes bright with awe.

She stutters adorably and tells me that she's seen all my movies, and how pleased she is to meet me, and that I have pretty hair.

Yeah, I know. I'm an Award winning actor and I'm a fuck hot looker – my girlfriends have always said so.

I learn she's twenty years old, a former teenage actress – she's starred in a few movies and now she's stepping up her game.

She says she wants to have an Oscar nomination by the time she's twenty-two and an Oscar by the time she's twenty-four.

She's ambitious, I admired that about her, I remember.

I see the sharks circling her – the new meat in town – readying themselves to dive in for the kill.

I see _him_ circling her. Eyeing her. Planning his moves.

I know his game – it's always the same. All the girls fall for it, hook, line and sinker.

It's inevitable. He oozes sex and charisma.

He eventually walks up to her.

He delivers his lines. He winks. Trailing his hand down her arm, he whispers in her ear. He smirks.

I can see it happening. She's no different. She's wowed by him, his charisma.

He's a sophisticate, nine years her senior, and with that beautiful accent and long list of Award winning movies to his name – it was inevitable.

I should have realized then the Armageddon that was heading my way.

She was the harbinger of doom.

I underestimated her – that was my mistake.

**~o~**

I think that was the specific day when he fell for her. Hard. Beyond help.

I stand on the sidelines. Watching. I'm always watching these days.

Somehow, without knowing how, she's occupying my mind, day and night.

I watch her with him that day.

I see him press his body close to her, I see him pushing her to the wall, holding her hands above, captured in one of his large calloused hands.

I watch him pressing his hips into her.

I see him. With her.

_Fuck_.

I watch him duck his head, brush his lips to her ear.

I see her shiver, her breathing catches before she pants lightly.

I hear him say those lines to her. _To her_. The plain brown-haired fuck.

"You have them all fooled, haven't you? They don't have any idea, do they? No idea that once I get you out of here, I'll have you on your hands and knees, begging for me to fuck you. Hard."

I watch her close her eyes and moan, "Oh, God."

I watch her tip her head back as he trails his lips from her ear. To her jaw. And finally down her neck.

He whispers the dirtiest phrases to her.

I watch his hands grab handfuls of her as he thrusts and grinds his hips into hers.

_Fuck._

They're just lines, I know.

_Fuck._

He's damn good with his lines.

"Okay, cut!"

"Let's try that scene again. But this time, let's..."

They're just lines, I know.

But I also know. I just goddamn know. That was the day he fell for her. Hard. Beyond help.

An unlikely friendship clicked. The two become great chums.

He would join her for occasional weekends.

She would join him for gigs, concerts and museum trips.

I watch them from the sidelines. I seem to be always watching these days.

I wait for the opportunity to present itself.

The knife continues to twist in my heart.

I never knew it would hurt so much – heartbreak, something I've never felt before.

**~o~**

Part Five

They say would-be killers entertain fantasies.

Play it out in their minds several times.

My brain broiled with scenarios. My synapses simmered.

I play out several scenes, each a variant on possible moves.

I'm a good actor – one of the very best.

I _am_ on the A-List, after all.

I've starred in Award winning movies.

I even got an Award for Best Screen Kiss.

And I'm about to star in the best role of my life.

I'm a good actor. One of the very best, I continue to tell myself.

They say would-be killers rarely act them out. If ever.

Most would-be killers never kill. Ever.

Sometimes factors converge though.

Sometimes, the right victim comes along.

And presents herself, like the sacrificial lamb.

Then opportunity hits.

The switch flips.

The would-be killer acts out.

Wham bam, thank you ma'am.

The first time I met her – there at that pool-side party, I should have known.

I should have known that despite her demure coquettish girl-next-door act, that she's trouble, that one.

I should have known that she would destroy my life.

I'm a good actor, a great actor.

One of the very best.

I should get an Award for the act I'm about to perpetrate.

**~o~**

James. High school jock now wannabe actor. My accomplice.

Jesus Christ Fuck.

Whatever did I see in him?

Ex-LAPD cop who dipped his greedy fat paws once too many in the confiscated drug stash.

He got caught stealing drugs from the evidence room – heroine and coke – replacing it with sugar.

He peddled the stolen stash back to the hoods on the streets.

It was good for awhile. Then he got caught.

What a knuckle head fuck up.

James. A bent cop now turned extortionist and all round muscle-man to the stars, and occasional pimp to Aro, movie mogul, who's infamous for his venality.

James also owes me big time. I got him in, a foot in the door, reading for a part.

Now, he's a dirty cop turned extra in the latest heist movie.

As re-payment to me, he's been surveilling her for months.

He's an expert bug and wire man.

It's boring, shitty work. That's his constant refrain.

But now that he's got the goods on her, he has delusions of grandeur.

He knows I owe him big time and he wants in on the latest movie project.

**~o~**

Putting up with James' constant bitching is worth it in the end.

Because now I have the goods.

I have her where I want her.

I have photos and recordings o_f her_.

On her hands and knees. Moaning and screaming unbelievably filthy things.

Who would've thought it of her – looking ever so girl-next-door-demure.

I have photos of Laurent, her co-star, buried in her.

His forehead pressed to her shoulders as he banged her in a cheap out of town motel.

I have photos o_f her_.

On her knees sucking Aro's cock as he promises her a part in his newest film project.

I have photos. _Of her_.

Toking, snorting, cooking up, shooting up.

She thinks she's so sly. But so am I.

I have photos _of her_.

In secluded corners round town.

Having intimate dinners with one of _his_ musician friends, when he's out of town.

I have photos _of her_.

Spread eagle on a blanket with another one of _his_ actor friends buried inside her, there under the Hollywood sign.

I have photos of _her_.

Screwing_ his friends_ while wearing the ring _he_ gave her, the ring that sits on that finger all but forgotten as she screws his friends' brains out.

Producers, casting directors, dealers, actors.

She works her way through them all when he's out of town clawing her desperate way up the ladder rung by fucking rung.

She and I are not so different after all – I realise that now – we're both highly sexual, depraved, and ambitious creatures.

You can't hide from yourself or anyone for long in this town.

This town drags you down eventually. It corrodes, erodes and takes all you have to give.

It brings out the worse, the very worse of each one of us.

You can't hide anything for long in this town and for that I'm thankful.

Hope springs infernal.

I'm going to bring her down.

**~o~**

Part Six

I press the Play button.

"You like that, baby?"

"You're going to be good tonight? You are always so, _so_ good to me, baby."

His kiss grew deeper, hands roaming under her short Versace dress.

I press the Fast Forward button.

She was getting boned by Demetri, another director. She's on her hands and knees, clutching the bed-sheets, dead ecstatic.

The fuck crescendos, skin slapping wet skin, ending in mutual screams.

I press Fast Forward again.

She and Demetri are getting high as kites on coke and smack. Uppers followed downers. They twitch then trembled before passing out.

I press Stop.

I'm delighted. We've hit the motherfucking jack-pot. "This is sooo good. Where...how...did you get this?"

James beamed. "The girl's no better than a prostitute. But at least she knows how to play the game. Her name's going to be lit up on the billboards in no time."

I sneer. "Not if I have my way."

James gets impatient. "Well, did I do good?"

**~o~**

My mind is decided. I knew I have her where I want her.

My mind was decided when I saw her at the launch party, looking oh so self-satisfied in her Chanel number.

My mind was decided when I saw that diamond glittery bright on her finger.

I replay that night again.

Her hand gripping his tux-covered arm, she whispered in his ear.

They both turned, along with the rest of their group, in my direction.

Sneering, they laughed before returning to their conversation.

They think they've got it made, flaunting that diamond in my face.

But hell hath no fury than a lover scorned.

And I was going to drag her down.

I called in some favours.

Passed the recording to a rag sheet, promising them I had more.

Twenty four hours zip past.

It was fucking scandal rags chaos. It was fucking skank-sheet Armageddon.

I was ecstatic.

After the debacle of the Great Reveal, as I like to refer to it, the photos in the scandal sheets showed her looking harried.

No makeup, hair a tangled unwashed mess, and always in baggy jeans with sunglasses and a hoodie covering most of her face no matter what time of the day.

Yet, he stuck by her.

James reports that he's always by her side these days.

How is that even possible?

I am livid.

Furious.

Obviously, I haven't done enough.

I have to destroy her.

I go through the available options.

I run through scenarios in my head. Play out the viable chess moves.

**~o~**

He's seeing her tonight for dinner before they travel out of town for a quiet weekend down the coast.

It's been fourteen days since the Great Reveal.

She's been keeping a low profile as per her publicist's and manager's instructions.

There's talk of a re-shoot with her replacement.

There's talk about her being dropped from the latest film project.

There's talk of the studio dropping her.

There are whispers about her entering rehab.

She's in endless meetings – she grows more harried and gaunt by the day.

I know this because I've seen the pictures in the tabloids.

I know this because I've listened to James' wire-taps.

I crow.

I gloat.

I delighted.

I hope she suffers.

I hope she feels the pain, humiliation and hurt that I've felt all these months as I see them on the set, about town, at parties, while I become a non-entity, a has-been-kicked-to-the-curb joke in this town.

I hope he sees the light and comes back to me.

We were always good together.

We were meant to be together.

We are royalty – the toast of this fucking town.

**~o~**

Over the days, I wait for him to return to me.

He doesn't.

Instead, he's still stuck by her side.

I get desperate. I worry that he doesn't see her for what she is.

I need to make him see.

He needs me especially now with the vultures circling.

It's time to make him understand that he needs me, that he belongs to me, that I'm good for him.

It's time to let him know that I am in this for the long run, that I'm ready to take him back.

I call his private number.

He doesn't answer.

I call again.

It goes to voice mail again.

I call again.

Nothing. I get his voice mail again.

I call again.

And again.

He finally answers.

His voice is angry. "Which part of fuck off did you not understand?"

I stutter. I reel. I expected something else from him but not this.

I expected something different, perhaps remorse, but not this tone. "I just wanted...I...I just wanted to let you know that I'm here for you."

He sneers down the phone. I know because I recognise that sneering voice so well. "Oh, really? _You're just here for me_, are you?"

"Yes, baby. Yes, I really am. I saw the papers. She isn't good for you, you know. Please. Can't you see that?"

He sighs down the phone, remaining quiet.

"Please. I love you. I still love you...I've always loved you. I see that now. Please. I want what's best for you. Please, you have to –"

He cuts me off. "Jesus fucking Christ. Quit calling. Just quit it. Why don't you get it? We're over. It is over. It ended over a year ago."

I don't get it. This isn't part of the script that had played out in my head. "I don't understand. What are you – "

He cuts me off, his voice rising in ire. "Stop calling this number. You're an embarrassment. I don't want to hear from you anymore."

I'm confused. "You mean...after all this, you still don't want me?"

"You get it now, don't you? You were only just a distraction. Just quit calling."

With that, he hangs up.

I look at the phone, frozen to the spot on my sofa.

I wanted him to see sense, to see what she's like.

I wanted him to know that I'd be there to protect him.

I needed him to know that I have feelings for him, that I've changed and that I wanted to be with him.

I don't want to seem desperate but I wanted him to see the mistake he's making.

It's critical that he sees.

I try calling back.

Again and again and again, I try.

But he doesn't answer.

**~o~**

I look at the calendar marked with crosses.

I count.

I can't believe they've been together that long.

I count again.

He's been with her for twelve months now.

That ring continues to glitter on her finger.

I go to the box in my safe where I keep all the evidence that James has gathered over the months.

I look over the surveillance photos taken of that day when he'd went down on one knee and proposed over a candlelight dinner he had organised at his beach house.

His parents had no inkling about her existence until the engagement was formalized.

They had dropped into town for a surprise visit with their darling golden boy.

Over dinner at his house, they announced their engagement to his parents.

They were shocked, then relieved.

They knew he kept things compartmentalized.

They talked long into the night about plans, co-ordinating schedules, venues and possible dates.

After the scandal sheet chaos, they talk to him about dropping the engagement.

He springs to her defence.

I know because I heard the wire taps.

I hear his mellifluous voice rise and thunder as he defends her, defends their love.

I'm livid.

I'm confused.

My heart hurts.

I hit the bottle that night.

James found me comatose on the sofa the following morning.

I can't take his pitying glances anymore.

**~o~**

This is not how it should have happened.

I had it all planned.

We were meant to be together.

He was meant to come back to me, not stay by her side.

He is mine – he won't be with her forever.

His obsession with her is unhealthy. I know it is.

He has to see the truth and I'm convinced I'm the only one he has to make him see the light.

I am desperate.

Deep down, I know that I have never felt this desperate about any other lover.

Deep down, I know that I have never felt this level of tension, anger, disappointment or humiliation.

I can feel the anger and fury radiating through me, spilling over into the booze and coke that have come to dominate my life now.

I realise now that there isn't a single cut-and-dry solution.

I still don't understand though. I'm confused that he's still with her after that recording.

But I know. I simply know she will ruin him.

I have evidence. The photos of her with his friends will be the proof that she's bad for him.

I should never have let this – whatever this is she has with him – go on for so long.

I should have acted fast.

I have to act fast now.

I go through my available options, considering each along with their likely possible outcomes.

Different scenarios are enacted in my mind's eye.

I consider my last option – coercion – it's a gamble.

I'm tired of these games.

I decide to play hardball.

I will move her into check mate.

I allowed her to fuck with me one too many times.

She won't escape scot free this time.

**~o~**

Part Seven

Traffic whizzed by below us.

It's getting late.

She's late.

We're high up above the town, its lights twinkling below us.

We're getting impatient sitting here in the car, surrounded by the silence of the dark.

She's supposed to be at our designated meeting point by now.

James is grumbling about the time, saying that he could be getting some action with his latest fuck piece. I resist the bait because I know his game.

Apart from the occasional whining, he's mostly quiet in the dark of our car.

But he wasn't last night.

We had a roaring, screaming match last night. Our first ever.

He had always been so amenable, always so ready to agree with my plans.

Over the months, we've become fuck buddies.

Why, you wonder.

Because it's convenient.

Because he was always there.

Because I was always here.

We all have our needs. And at the end of the day, we all need our distractions.

**~o~**

But last night was the first time I feared him.

He's a big, muscular man with a dirty blonde crew cut. 6' 6" and built like a brick shit house.

He could punch his weight. I've seen him in action.

His time spent on the streets as a LAPD cop taught him dirty moves.

I was suddenly afraid.

**~o~**

I had detailed my plans to him.

He hit the roof. He raged. He fumed. He screamed.

He grabbed my shoulders, shook me, rattled me like a rag doll, shouting. "Are you out of your fucking mind!"

**~o~**

"It's going to be okay, baby. Please, please trust me." I cup his face with my hands wanting to calm him.

Inside, I'm quaking, held prisoner in his iron grip. My feet dangle uselessly inches from the carpet.

He sneers, shakes me some more. "How the fuck would you know that, huh? How? You've never gotten your hands dirty before, princess."

Insulted by his insinuation, I retort, "James, look. You've got to understand. I'm a good actor – one of the very best."

"What the fuck has acting got anything to do with this fucking insane plan of yours?"

I attempt haughty Hollywood royalty then, "I have played a lot of people who have killed, you know. I know the moves, the tics, the tricks of the trade. I even got an Oscar for my role as a murderer."

His eyes bulged.

He looks at me as if I've just shit myself.

His voice drops to a whisper. "You mean to tell me that –"

Speaking softly, I put my hand on his cheek and smile. I want to console him. He's never been this anxious. "It'll be okay, James. It's going to be okay. You'll be there to protect me, won't you, baby? You're always there for me, baby."

I rally myself internally.

I _am_ on the A-List.

I've starred in Award winning movies.

I even got an Award for Best Screen Kiss.

I _am _Hollywood royalty.

I'm a good actor. One of the very best, I continue to tell myself.

Shaking his head, he releases me. I know without looking that my arms are red where he'd gripped me, marked with his hand prints, and will no doubt be bruised by early morning.

I circle his well defined broad waist with my arms. Pressing my face to his chest, breathing in his masculine fragrance, I reassure him again. "James. James, baby. It's going to be okay. I'm about to star in the best role of my life."

He remains silent.

He just watches me with that strange expression.

He gathers me up again, cradles me in those strong muscular arms of his.

This time, I don't feel afraid.

This time, I feel protected, cherished even.

And this time, he kisses me deeply.

**~o~**

In the quiet that descends after their argument, James is left feeling a strange unnameable dread.

Something is heading their way. He can feel it barrelling down towards them with the inevitability of a freight train.

His instincts tell him to run – it's the very same instincts he ignored to his peril as a beat cop on the LA streets many years ago.

For the first time in years, he feels true fear.

Lifting her up, she wraps her legs round his waist.

They sigh into their kiss which grows increasingly passionate.

He wants nothing more than to be buried inside her.

He wants nothing more than to comfort and reassure her that everything will be okay.

He could take her right now, against the living room wall or bent over the sofa.

But what he wants is to take her to bed.

This is where he carries her; their fight now forgotten.

**~o~**

James made the phone calls the night before, after our fight and make-up session.

Disguising his voice, he told her he had more photos.

He said that he had further evidence to prove that she was a dirty little whore.

She doesn't back down easily.

She spits out counter-threats at him.

She's tough, that one, surprising me yet again.

I listened on the other line as he levelled threats at her, warning her of what he'd do if she didn't pay the asking price.

He drew on his bad cop persona, hissing down the phone that he was going to run her out of town.

He details what he sees her doing in the photos, tells her about the recordings he has of her screaming filthy things to numerous men, men who are not her fiancé.

He tells her what he'll do to her soon-to-be husband if she doesn't do as she's told.

The photos would be further proof she was nothing but a talentless, lowlife fuck-piece who screws her way to the top.

She cries into the phone, pleading and whimpering, her voice croaking as she sniffles wetly.

James said she could have the pictures but that they would come at a price.

Anything, no matter how much, she promised.

Crying down the phone line, she agreed to drive out to us at the arranged meeting point.

**~o~**

She turns up, over half an hour after the agreed time.

She's either foolish or brave.

It's possible that she's foolish and brave and arrogant too.

Because now she's raised the stakes.

She's turned up at our meeting point carrying a gun.

Waving it at us, she screams ultimatums.

What a stupid fucking girl.

Well, it's hardly surprising. She's from a podunk town and didn't even finish High School.

I'm slightly amused.

But then she raises the gun, aims and shoots at us, missing wide.

Thank fuck for that.

By now, James has had enough.

His patience is worn thin.

And he snaps.

But I tug at him, wanting to stop him.

This is my fight. And I want in, I tell him.

He smirks at me before grabbing my neck to kiss me hard.

**~o~**

Part Eight

James approaches her slowly, his hands up.

He turns in his good cop persona and talks to her in that soothing voice of his.

She continues to yell out death threats, waving the gun at him.

For a big guy, he moves at surprisingly lightning speed.

He grabs her gun hand that's been flailing around. She yelps as he pulls and twists her arm behind her.

She's pinned with her back to his chest, her feet kicking out ineffectually at me.

He grabs her gun, throwing it to the side before shoving her to the ground.

I fall upon the gun – you never know, it might come in handy.

She falls on her hands and knees and screams her curses. I pounce on her.

We struggle there in the dirt under the night sky, lit only by the headlights of our respective cars.

I can hear James chuckling in the background.

I grit my teeth and channel all my rage, fury and indignation into subduing this bitch of a girl.

I thought I had her shoulders pinned.

She wriggles and twists out of my grasp.

She puts up a fight like a wild cat. She's biting, kicking, gouging.

She slaps me, pulls my hair.

The slap is weak. Most women slapped harder.

I suspect it must be the downers in her system.

I have finally had enough.

I kick her in the groin.

I pistol-whip her. She crumples, unconscious.

"That should shut you up, you pathetic bitch." I'm furious with her.

She'd tug out clumps of my hair, after all.

And she had stolen my long-time lover.

I look over at James. He's leaning against the car, arms crossed, looking relaxed. He's smirking. "So, is this how you actors fight in your films? I could teach you a thing or two, you know."

I glare at him. He's trying to be cute. But I've had enough of this fucked up night.

My hair is a mess. And I've lost two buttons off my Prada blouse.

He continues in that conversational tone, as if we're sitting down to afternoon tea at the Ritz. "You fight like a girl. I could teach you how to throw a decent punch."

"Yeah, well, maybe after all this is over, we could wrestle naked in the mud."

His eyes light up.

"You're an ass, James." But I'm amused.

**~o~**

We take her to my hideaway fuck pad high up in the Hollywood Hills.

It's the place where he and I always had our marathon fuck sessions.

It's the place where I last spoke to him.

I let my memory play over that fateful night.

The night when he let her come between us.

And today, finally, she'll pay.

We dump her in the shower stall in the bathroom.

She's passed out, woke up, then passed out again.

James leaves on another agreed errand.

I check the knots again making sure she's tied up well and good.

I've had enough of her and I want her gone.

She's ruined my life, taken away everything that meant something to me.

**~o~**

Hours pass. Dawn passes into the oppressive heat of the afternoon.

Sunlight passes into dusk before giving way to night.

I check on the girl in the bathroom.

She's sitting up now. She looks a bloodied, bruised mess sitting there in her ruined clothes.

Her face is a kaleidoscope of mascara, eyeliner, smeared lipstick and bruises.

Any other time, I would have entertained tender thoughts about her.

But not now. Not after everything.

Muffled with a gag, I can hardly hear her hoarse screams.

**~o~**

I hear the purr of a car engine pulling up the driveway, gravel crunching under its wheels.

James.

A car door slams shut followed by sounds of a muffled struggle before the boot is slammed shut.

More shuffles of feet dragging and stumbling over the gravel driveway, followed by a series of fleshly smacks, slaps, yelps ad grunts.

Someone leans heavily on the doorbell. A thud, then a pained groan resounds against the oak front door.

Before I can get to it, the door swings opens.

James stumbles in, pulling him, Edward, bodily through the door.

I turn to the man, the one who walked out on me, _on us_, all those months ago.

His hands and feet are tied with cord, his mouth gagged with a dirty rag. He's got a black eye, blood is running from his nose, there's blood matted in his hair, and he's obviously got a broken cheek bone.

"James! What the fuck did you do to him!"

I'm stunned, beside myself. I've never seen Edward look so messed up.

Yet, even bruised, bloodied and dishevelled, Edward is still a sight to behold.

He doesn't react to seeing me though.

He doesn't even look surprised.

He just looks glazed and hurt.

And even with the gag obscuring most of his beautiful mouth, I can tell from his eyes that he's furious.

I can't stand him looking at me like that. Hurt and furious.

I can't stand him looking me as if it was me who hurt him.

As if any of this fucked up situation is my fault.

I desperately need to explain that it was he who started all this sordid business, that it was him who drove me to this end-game.

After all, it was he who humiliated me all those months ago.

I have to show him the evidence of his mistakes. That _she_ is the mistake.

He needs to see those photos.

I have to explain that all these things I've done was for his, _for our_ benefit.

I _have_ to make him finally see the light.

And then I know, _I just know_, he'll come back to me.

I look over to James.

He has an unreadable expression on his face.

I don't understand that grimace of his.

But I don't have the time now. I'll ponder and decipher it later.

Edward needs my attention now.

I walk over to him and reach for his gag.

_My Edward_.

I have to explain to him.

I have to make him see sense.

Make him realise that he was mistaken about that two-bit whore.

James decides then to interrupt our moment of reunion. "Tanya, listen. I've thought about this. There're ways we can – "

I'm impatient. Furious with his interruption in this tender moment, I lose my temper. "James, please, not now. We can –"

He grabs my shoulder and turns me to him. "Tanya, wait my love. Just listen to –"

I struggle and try to shove him away, "No. I need to explain things to him. We...I... because I – "

"Tanya, listen. Listen to me, honey. We have a change of plans. We have to kill him. If we don't ...Listen to me, Tan, remember what he did, what he said to you? Listen, we have to – "

"What are you saying?" I'm practically shaking now. I struggle out of his grasp and turn to Edward. _My Edward_. My hands tremble as I pull down the filthy bloody rag that's tied round his beautiful mouth.

Kill him? Kill _my _Edward?

What the fuck is wrong with James?

How can he say such heinous things?

After everything I've been through?

**~o~**

James has had enough.

He can feel the freight train barrelling down towards them.

They're running out of time.

It was only a matter of hours before the cops show up.

Of this he is certain.

He's going to take matters into his own hands.

Shoving Tanya aside, James approaches Edward with a syringe.

Edward's eyes widen.

He struggles as James grabs him but to no avail.

Tanya screams. "NO! James! No!"

She wails, screams and cries.

Jumping on James' back, she pummels him with her fists.

He doesn't feel her fists.

He just wants to finish what he, what they, started.

And then, he'll simply pick Tanya up and run.

He'd promised to look after her and this is one fucking promise he intends to keep in the forty years of his fucked up life.

Edward slumps over after the injection takes effect.

Tanya cradles Edward, smoothing the hair from his forehead.

Bending over, crying, she kisses him softly on his bloodied, split lips.

"Forgive me, my love. Forgive me. I'm so sorry."

**~o~**

They say would-be killers rarely act out. If ever.

Most would-be killers never kill. Ever.

But sometimes factors converge.

Sometimes, the right victim comes along.

And presents herself, like the sacrificial lamb.

Then opportunity hits.

The switch flips.

The would-be killer acts out.

And then it's wham bam, thank you very fucking much ma'am.

**~o~**

I pull out two switchblades from my pockets.

James and I had fought again.

We screamed, shouted, threw objects that were within our reach at each other.

He was being stubborn.

He wanted to change the plans, the plans that we agreed on the night before.

I suspect he's jealous of Edward.

But I can't be sure.

I'll have to think about that later.

Now, I have other things on my mind, such as finishing off the girl.

Our plans changed again when it came to the short, brown-haired girl.

But I've underestimated how tough Isabella Swan is.

She fights like a wild thing. Somehow she managed to wriggle out of the knots while we were distracted with Edward.

I don't know how, but I'm panicking now.

This isn't going according to the script I had planned out in my mind.

I'm attempting to hold her down again. But she wriggles and kicks and bites.

James pulls out his gun, but fumbles it and drops it when she kicks out and lands him a solid one in his balls.

He goes down like a sack of potatoes.

The fucking sad sack of shit.

She struggles, wriggles out of my grip, falls on her hands and knees and grabs at the gun.

Struggling up, James makes a grab for her hands.

She twists out of his grasp and hits him in the chest with his gun.

She hits him with flailing girl punches.

I grab at her hair and pull hard.

She screams a blood curdling screech.

His warning scream chokes out mute as another well-aimed kick from her catches him in his balls.

She pulls at the trigger – too fast to stop her now – and _BANG!_

The smoke clears.

James looks down. His eyes widen as a red smear builds, then spreads over his shirt-covered chest.

**~o~**

James has felt pain in his life.

He is fully intimate with the full spectrum of pain – dull, sharp, stinging, thudding, biting – he knows pain.

He has felt the pain of heartbreak, of childhood abandonment, of a father's anger manifested in fists and repeated whippings of a heavy leather belt.

He has felt the pain of broken ribs, broken cheekbones, of fingers and a jaw broken in a street brawl and a gun-shot wound in his shoulder.

It's normal in his line of work.

But this. This is new.

A quick, sharp, blinding pain shoots through his chest.

The wind is knocked out of him.

He finds it increasingly difficult to breathe. He's gasping for air.

He falls forward on his hands and knees.

Propping himself up on one hand, he glances down, clutching at his shirt.

Wet spreads out on his chest. It's red. It continues to seep crimson across his torso.

Oh Jesus motherfucking hell.

This is finally it.

He looks around.

He searches for the one woman who has lit up his life these past few months.

He meets the eyes of the beautiful woman who remains the one incandescent spark in his sordid gutter trash of a life.

For her, he would do anything, everything.

For her, he would even profess the one thing he has kept secret.

She is everything to him.

But she doesn't know that.

It remains the one secret James holds close to his chest.

He doesn't want her to turn what has become precious to him into something base, nasty and sordid.

**~o~**

In this town, the alchemical equation works both ways.

It's true. What's base can be turned into gold, given the right connections and blow jobs and visits to numerous casting couches.

But the reverse also holds true. What's precious and beautiful can be twisted and reduced to something sordid and base.

**~o~**

James rapidly loses the ability to speak.

Red is bubbling, gurgling from his mouth as he attempts his last words.

But Tanya doesn't hear him.

Her attention is diverted from him by a harlot turned starlet.

She's busy wrestling, pulling and fulminating with the plain, brown-haired girl who has become the epicentre of this major clusterfuck.

Black seeps into his vision, his breath becomes laboured.

He attempts his last words, "T...T...Tan...Tanya...I lo...I...you..."

His head slumps backwards, the last thing he sees is a golden haired angel wrestling with a brown-haired she-demon.

**~o~**

Part Nine

A bloodied coat.

A blood smeared stiletto heel.

A torn shower curtain.

A blood spattered bedroom.

Assorted broken pieces of furniture littering the living room, bedroom and kitchen.

Two guns.

Two switchblades.

Two dead bodies – one an actress, the other an ex-LAPD cop.

Two live ones – one a female starlet with a range of injuries, the other a male actor, a stalwart of the Hollywood establishment, who is just emerging from a drug induced unconsciousness thanks to the speedy diagnosis of the emergency services.

And a box of photographs and recordings lying in an opened safe.

That was the crime scene that greeted the cops that morning when they rammed down the front door.

An eagle eyed nosy neighbour, Mrs. Cope, had heard sounds of a fight the night before. Peeping through her bedroom curtains with long range binoculars, she'd spied a bound and gagged Edward Masen Cullen struggling as he was getting wrestled into the boot of a car belonging to one James Durant.

The cops know it's James Durant's car because said nosy neighbour had made a note of the license plate before making the crucial phone call, one which managed to save the lives of two Hollywood stars but sadly not the other two.

**~o~**

Part Ten

Sirens screamed in the background, the blue lights strafing across the bedroom wall as two women fought desperately over a gun.

Time is rapidly running out.

A dead body lies against the doorway, forgotten.

Someone falls over and lands on its knees.

Someone gets kicked in the jaw, blood gouting out from a broken nose.

Someone falls, knees bruised and bloodied.

Finger nails are now bloodied too.

Someone throws its head backwards.

She makes a high keening noise.

Eyeliner and blood runs down her bruised cheeks.

Before pulling the trigger, Bella smirks. "I always get what I want."

_BANG! _Another shot cracked through the early morning air. That was the third one in that god-awful thirty-odd hours.

Bella struggles to arrange the dead woman's body into what she considers a guilty pose before she proceeds to place the dead woman's fingers over the trigger.

Bella knows how these things are done.

She is no fool, having watched CSI on repeat.

She then places her fingers over the dead woman's, points the gun towards her own shoulder.

Bella hates pain and she dislikes blood even more.

But for her plans, she'd do anything.

She takes a deep breath, before muttering, "To me, Isabella Swan. I'm about to star in the best role of my life. Now I'm going to be famous. They're never going to forget my name now."

She pulls the trigger.

_BANG!_ It goes off. That's the fourth bullet expended during that wayward, melodramatic night.

Plumes of smoke surround her screams before she slumps over.

**~o~**

They say would-be killers entertain fantasies.

Play it out in their minds several times.

They say would-be killers rarely act them out. If ever.

Most would-be killers never kill. Ever.

But sometimes factors converge.

Sometimes, the right victim comes along.

And presents herself, like the sacrificial lamb.

Then opportunity hits.

The switch flips.

The would-be killer acts out.

**~o~**

This was how the paramedics and police found Isabella Swan. Slumped over with a gun-shot wound in her shoulder. She passes in and out of consciousness, whimpering, looking shell-shocked, pale and shaking.

She is soon re-united with Edward Cullen, who is just coming out of his own drug induced nightmare.

He holds her tenderly, whispers in her hair, telling her how much he loves her and that he would never let her go.

He promises her that together, they'll get through this nightmare.

She whimpers and projects shock in her pale face and shaking limbs.

As she has her story and wounds appraised by cops and medics, she reminds herself, I'm Isabella Marie Swan, the Queen Bee. I can put up a good front. Hang in there. Act your way out.

She conveys all the tics and grimaces of a victim with a gunshot wound going into shock.

For a moment there, she believes she comes off credible and true. But then, her eyes widen momentarily. She starts yelling, "I need to go back in there! Please! I need to...I forgot...just please!"

She struggles against the hold of Edward arms, wrenches herself free and makes a dash for the police tape that has gone up round the house.

The cops hold her back. "Ma'am, ma'am, you can't go in there. It's a crime scene now."

She continues to struggle and tries to move past them into the house. Believing she's in shock, they take pity on her screaming and flailing. They pass her back into Edward's open arms.

She's screaming.

She's wailing.

She's hysterical.

She's struggling against Edward, sobbing. "Oh God! Oh God! I'm so sorry! I'm so fucking sorry!"

Edward's heart breaks. He realizes that the love of his life has been deeply traumatised by the events of this night and the sordid saga of his past life.

Clutching his shirt, she continues to whimper. "This is all my fault. I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't mean to...I didn't..."

Rocking her, he comforts her. "It's okay, my love. It's okay Everything will be okay."

Edward attempts to console her but to no avail. Isabella Swan continues to wail, lost in her hysteria.

The paramedics are sympathetic and usher them into the waiting ambulance.

Meanwhile, inside the house, unbeknownst to all but one outside, the cops gather round the box they find in the opened safe. It contains the photographs and recordings that will now become the centre of another clusterfuck.

**~o~**

The tabloids, scandal rags and broadsheets screamed only one story in the days after.

Celebrity dysfunction scares the studios shitless simply because it's bad publicity and cost them money.

The studios peddle a dream – they're pimps after all – the oldest ones in this town.

The best fantasy they pimp – the demure, coquettish girl next door, the sultry conniving siren and the stumbling knight errant.

Tanya Petrovich, Isabella Swan and Edward Cullen are actors.

Theirs was a tale of lascivious lovers and hell-bent vengeance played out in the fabulously fucked up world of egotistical dysfunction.

They say all actors are fucked up – they are their art, after all.

Their sole gift is impersonation because let's cut to the chase, it's is a non-meditative art, the goal been to become something you're not.

Tanya Petrovich played a killer for which she won an Oscar.

She re-packaged that fantasy and believed the lie.

Her reprisal of the fantasy is what dragged her down, her life now tabloid fodder for the vultures to voyeurize.

Isabella Swan is an actor too, a raggedy-ass girl from nowhere-ville, hell bent on seeing her name lit up against the skyline, determined to get there by any means necessary.

Her demure-coquette-girl-next-door act is all she knows.

Her performances have only ever pushed this one creative envelope.

She finds the roles that allow her to re-perform this role in all its tics, mugs, squints, pouts and coquettish grins.

Tanya Petrovich was correct about one thing. Isabella Swan is a narrow range actor who deploys her soon to be fading assets. Her default mode is sex.

The studios peddle the fantasy, not the reality.

They hold the mirror up to our exorbitant dreams.

We want our celebrity to be demi-gods.

We want them attainable yet unattainable.

We want them to soar above us.

We want to see them stumble and fall, get the rough ride before they end up in the gutters with us.

We want them to embrace the fucking goddamn contradictory dichotomy of our common or garden pulp fiction fantasies.

In the battle between reality vs fantasy – fantasy always wins hands down.

Celebrity is peddled and pimped in this godforsaken town.

Celebrity seduces and repels.

The tabloids and scandal rag sheets dig this dysfunctional dynamic.

There's the truth.

And there's dramatic logic.

And then there are age-old movie themes.

There's the victim as killer, the hero as knight errant and the victim as wrongly accused.

And there's the killer as victim, the hero as mug and the victim as arch manipulator.

Victimhood is cult in Hollywood.

And the killer's always supposedly the sleazebag.

If you let it, this town will _always_ fuck you up.

**oOOo**

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**A/N: **I had fun writing this one-shot, playing around with tone, tense and style. If the mood strikes me, I might expand it further after the contest is over.

I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you did, please leave your thoughts, comments or musings. I would love to hear them. Oh, and the title of this one-shot is from that Elvis song. Thank you for reading. Till next time…


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